


runaway baby

by sterekinallcaps (SterekInAllCaps)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Thief!Scott, aiden and ethan are bartenders bc I said so, alex is just some random guy though btw, cia agent!boyd, cia agent!erica, criminal!Derek, hacker!danny, idk they're all just really badass, oh shit I forgot lydia, thief!Lydia, thief!allison, this is so old like from season 3, why am i even posting this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-10 21:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2041425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SterekInAllCaps/pseuds/sterekinallcaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When taking a shortcut home from work, Stiles Stilinski witnesses what looks like the murder of Jackson Whittemore.  He sees the killer, the killer sees him, and before he knew what was happening, the killer had Stiles drugged and quiet in the passenger's seat of his shiny black Camaro.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you handsome devil

Stiles pushed through the familiar door of the Jungle, the strong smell of alcohol, cleaning supplies, and sweat invading his senses, and immediately collapsed in an unoccupied booth in the back. There were already people sitting at the counter, mouths full with burgers and sipping on milkshakes that Alex served, and Aiden and Ethan dashed around serving people at the tables.

It was Monday morning, just a little past 7am with the sun just peeking from behind the horizon. Why is the Jungle - _a gay bar_ \- even open this early in the morning? Should it open at, like, sunset or something? No one wants to be caught grinding in broad daylight. Stiles was seriously regretting staying up all night to play video games as his eyes began to droop and his head felt heavy. Today just ain’t his day.

“Mornin’, Stiles,” Squinting through the light, he looked up to see Alex giving him a dimpled smile as he wiped his hand on a rag.

“ _Alex_ ,” He spoke, stressing his name and running his hand through his hair to pull on the strands in a desperate attempt to wake himself up. “Get Ethan to send me home for the day.”

Alex sighed, dropping the rag to the table and crossing his arms over his chest. “You know I have no power over him-”

“Yes, you do!” Stiles protested, leaning his elbows on the table. “What’s the point of fucking him if you can’t get a few favors?”

He glanced up at Stiles’ language, his eyes wide and dramatic. “We’re not...” He paused, his ears turning as red as his hair. “You know...”

Stiles rolled his eyes, saying, “Oh, _please_ , the whole bar knows what happens when you two are the last two after closing!”

“Well, they do now; keep your voice down!” He hissed back, and then sighed again, glancing behind his shoulder at Ethan as he served food to a couple. Stiles knew he was going to agree when he turned back with a mocking glare. “You’re manipulative and terrible.”

Stiles smiled, knowing that he had him right where he wanted him. “Thanks. I owe you.”

“Uh-huh,” Alex hummed, then he was away from the table and next to Ethan.

Stiles decided that Alex would pull a few strings and get him the day off, so he closed his eyes for a bit, resting his head against the cool wood of the table. His (blissful) five-minute nap was interrupt when he squirmed in his seat, feeling someone’s eyes burning a hole through him.

After a few minutes, he looked up, searching the crowd for a minute before  his eyes landed on a man at the bar, and - _Oh, my God_. With Beacon Hills being such a small town, no one’s name went unknown, and Stiles had never seen this man before. He had the facial structure of a Greek God, his face dotting with a spread of scruff, and his lips - God, those _lips_ \- were fixed in a straight line. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, but Stiles knew that he was the center of his attention. The fit of his shirt was absolutely sinful; he could practically see the ridges of his abdomen, and his huge biceps were outlined through the black.  Although, Stiles found it a bit weird that he wore a black leather jacket because _who the hell wears a leather jacket in August?_

Suddenly, breaking the intense eye contact between him and Leather Jacket, Alex was in front of him, the crooked grin back on his face.

“Stiles,” Alex spoke, snapping him back to the real world. “You’re so lucky I like you.”

He returned the smile as he slid out of the booth. “Thanks, man,” He bumped his fist against Alex’s and turned to wave to Ethan and Aiden. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You better buy me one hell of a Christmas present, Stilinski!” Alex called after him, and Stiles gave him a half-hearted thumbs up over his shoulder.

When Stiles looked back to the bar, the third stool on the left was vacant as if no one was ever there.

* * *

Stiles glared up at the sky for its deceptive ways, finally understanding why the man from the bar wore a leather jacket. The sun choose to hide behind the dark clouds that were heavy with rain, but a strong wind was blowing, making goosebumps run up his arms. He cursed to himself for only wearing a thin flannel shirt instead of layering like he usually does. Since the wind never seemed to stop and the cool air managed to somehow get through his hoodie, he decided to stop past Jackson’s house, which was right around the corner.

(No matter how much of an asshole Jackson was, he’d much rather bug him for a ride home and steal his food then to have to get one of his fingers cut off due to frostbite.)

He walked through the residential neighborhood, all big houses with fancy cars in the driveway and neatly trimmed lawns. He was well aware how misplaced he looked in his worn red hoodie and jeans with a hole in the right knee, but he couldn’t find the heart to care; he just wanted to get to Jackson’s house.

Stiles would like to think that he knows Jackson well enough that to know that an all black Camaro wasn’t in his taste, and everyone that visits his house is rich enough to run a small country, so Rolls Royce and Porches were to be expected. The car was parked crookedly in the driveway, the driver’s door left wide open and the car still running, a puff of exhaust hanging by the tailpipe.

He also noticed that the front door was ajar, and as he walked closer to the threshold, he could see that the door was busted down, almost torn off the hinges. _What the hell?_

Swallowing his apprehension, he took a step further into the house, looking around the familiar setting. The television was on and the shattered pieces of broken glass lay around a puddle of what he assumed to be soda in the corridor, making him freeze in fright. Stiles added the pieces together in his mind, by the broken door and the smashed glass, it was obvious that Jackson struggled against someone. _Get out of here, and call the cops._

A thud from overhead made Stiles race up the stairs before he could stop himself. He didn’t care about being quiet anymore as he sprinted around, the sound of his sneakers hitting the floor echoing off the high ceilings. He ran off pure adrenaline as his feet carried him from to room, shouting Jackson’s name over and over again. _Shit, did he have to buy a five-bedroom house?_

When he got to the master bedroom, he could’ve swore his heart stopped momentarily. The first thing he saw was Jackson’s feet on the floor, unmoving in his expensive foreign shoes. The rest of his body was hidden behind the wall, but Stiles could only imagine. Then his eyes trailed up to the man walking from the room.

With one glance of the all black attire and leather jacket, the sudden realization hit him. The man stared at him, and he stared back, both wearing dumbfounded expressions. Leather Jacket’s face tightened and formed into a deadly scowl before he let out a threatening growl. _Oh shit oh shit oh shit-_

Stiles’s eyes went big as he ran from the room. He stumbled down the stairs, trying his best not to trip over his own two feet as Leather Jacket flew down after him. At the end of the stairs, the wind was almost knocked out of him as he was thrown to the ground face down, crushed between the wooden floor and Leather Jacket’s weight.

“Leave me alone! Get off of me!”

He struggled, kicking and thrashing as hard as he could, but Leather Jacket was stronger, and he easily wrapped Stiles’ arms behind his back. He could feel Leather Jacket take one hand off for a second then there was a prick in the back of his neck. His vision went blurry as body went ridge and began to protest against the motion, bringing pain with each thrust.

Right before his world turned black, two single words were whispered, sincere and profound. They were so quiet that they felt personal, like he was intruding just by listening.  

“I’m sorry.” 


	2. abandon all hope

Stiles fluttered his eyes open, squinting into the too bright sunlight. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, and by the stiffness of his body, he could tell that he had been in the car for a long time. Outside the window, countless trees rushed past the window in a blur, making his head spin and become nauseous. The events of the morning hit him, and he suddenly wasn’t so nauseous as he was frightened. He flinched involuntarily as the memories came piling in, and grimaced as his wrist roughly scraped against the metal handcuffs.

He glanced over at the driver’s seat and seen Leather Jacket there, one hand on the wheel and the other holding a pen to his mouth. He glanced over at Stiles with a twitch of his lips that didn’t fully reach his eyes.

“Oh, you’re awake.” He pulled the pen from his mouth, licking his chapped lips (and Stiles mentally kicked himself for tracking the movement with his eyes). “I was starting to think I was riding around with a dead body.”

Stiles wasn’t sure if he was too scared or too stunned, but either way, he couldn’t form his thoughts into sentences. He was sitting in the car going God-knows-where with a murderer _and kidnapper_ , and his hands were bound with handcuffs, preventing him from doing anything, that tore into his skin every time he moved. He took in a deep breath as he stared forward at the open road, trying his hardest to be as quiet as possible, and tried to calm himself down, feeling the beginning of a panic attack bubbling in his throat. _Don’t freak out._

He finally could breath again, and was able to stutter out, “W-who are you?”

When he glanced back, he could see something like concern in his eyes, but Stiles didn't buy it. “Derek,”

He nodded at the hesitant reply. He thought about saying his own name, but what would it matter? Knowing his name wouldn’t stop him - _Derek_ \- from cutting off his fingers and sending them to his family, so he decided not to give out any personal information. After a beat of silence, he asked another question. "Why'd you kill Jackson?"

"Didn't kill him,"

He didn't believe him. Why should he? He knows what he saw. Jackson wouldn't be laying so still on the floor for no reason. “Why’d you take me?”

Derek looked at him at the corner of his eye, but didn’t say anything.

“Are you going to kill me?”

Derek finally looked at him, stared for a few seconds, then shook his head. Stiles didn’t really count that as an answer, but he moved on.

“Where are we?”

Derek make a low sound in the back of his throat. “I liked it better when you were out.”

He rubbed his neck against his shoulder, both his hands moving at the same time with the shift of his arm, and felt sting from the sensitive spot where the needle went. “What’d you give me anyway?”

Derek glared at the road, but answered anyway in a low voice. “Drug cocktail a friend of mine gave me.”

It was Stiles’ turn to glare as he glared for a moment. “Well, what if this ‘drug cocktail’ killed me? What then?”

“Oh, shut up,” He commanded, pressing the gas pedal a little harder. “I was trained to do things-”

Stiles looked up at the sudden stop as Derek snapped his lips shut. “‘ _Trained_ ’? Like... military trained? Or are we talking terrorist-in-the-making trained? Is the car, like, packed with maps and plans to take over the world?” He asked, his mind too jumbled to make any sense. Derek didn’t reply, his eyes glued to the road in front of them, which made Stiles even angier. “Hey - _Derek_? Trained for what?”

He never said another word, and they drove a bit further and Derek pulled into the parking lot of a diner.

“Come on,” He said, opening his door.

“ _No_.” At the stubborn reply, Derek got out the car and walked around to the passenger’s side, yanking open the door with rage.

“ _Stiles_ ,” He hissed, the hidden threat under his tone falling empty with his name.

Stiles’ stomach tightened and adrenaline shot through his body, his blood running cold. He suddenly wanted to run, to get out of here. “You know my name. Why do you-”

“Get in here, throw a few fake smiles around, and eat; that’s all. I’m not asking you to rob the place.”

“Are you going to rob the place?” Looking through the window, he could only see four of the tables with occupants, and the diner wasn’t very popular, so it was only staffed with a few people; nothing a man Derek’s size couldn’t handle with a gun. Stiles looked at his waist for the protruding edge of a gun, but didn’t see one. Then he remembered that there could be one around his ankle, but didn’t see one there either.

“I’m not here to-” He stopped and took a deep breath. “I just want food, and I know you do, too.”

Due to the low rumble in his stomach at the lovely aroma of bacon, Stiles was forced to give up the act. “I’ll go under one condition.”

“What?”

“You let me _go_.” Stiles glared, trying to get his point across, but Derek went unaffected. “I’ll do whatever the hell you want me to today, I won’t go to the police, I’ll keep my mouth shut-”

“How do I know you won’t slip a note to the waitress or something?” He challenged through narrow eyes.

“You don’t. Maybe I will maybe, I won’t,” Stiles shrugged, a smirk held back. “That’s a risk you’ll have to take.”

“Fine,” He agreed after a moment’s hesitation, reaching down to unlock the cuffs digging into Stiles’ wrists. “Now, get out of my car.”

After that, Stiles realized exactly who he was dealing with. Derek didn’t know what he was doing. He was something; Stiles knew that because of what he saw at Jackson’s house, but Derek didn’t have a gun, he hadn’t disguised himself, and he didn’t appear to have a strict plan. Derek was literally harmless, but then _I was trained to do things-_ lingered in his mind, and he rethought that. Maybe Derek would only hurt someone if provoked, like a bear. He had no reason to be scared, not even to tiptoe with what he said, but Stiles still knew to be careful. If Derek stuck to the deal (which he was praying he did), Stiles could go to the police and give them a perfect description of him. He’d be caught, and things would carry on as normal.

Well, as normal as things could be after all that. 

Stiles stepped out, stretching as the warm sun beat down on his face. Derek led him through the parking lot and to the door, Stiles giving him his best fake smile when he opened the door for him.

It was a nice roadside dinner about half the size of the Jungle with a much friendlier feel to the place. The walls were painted a dull cream color, and the photos on them were old under the metallic gold frames. There were only eight tables and a counter in the back. Waiters juggled serving trays as they dashed around the tables and to and from the kitchen.

A girl, not a day over eighteen, walked up to them and smiled at Derek, ignoring Stiles completely. “Hey,” She purred.

“ _Hi_ ,” Stiles said, pointedly drawing her attention as he slung an arm around Derek’s waist and snuggled into his arm. He could feel the handle of a gun just under his shirt tucked into his waistband and - _God, how wrong was he?_

“ _Don’t even think about it_ ,” Derek growled into his ear, and somehow they both kept the smiles plastered on their faces.

Stiles let out a giggle, and pushed his face away slightly, pretending to be flushed by some imaginary sexual comment. “ _Oh_ , kinky,”

The girl - _Brittany_ , according to her tag - pulled a face, something between rejection and disgust, and pointed to a vacant table in the back. “Someone’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

Stiles slipped his hand in Derek’s as he leads them both to the table. They picked up menus, Stiles casting a glance over the sticky plastic card at him, but he appeared to be too concentrated on his-

“Stop staring,” He growled, his eyes never straying.

“How’d you know-”

Derek shot a look at Stiles from over his menu, and Stiles stayed quiet until a blonde came over to take their orders.

“What will it be today, folks?” She asked, her big blue eyes switching between the men. “Eggs and bacon’s the special, and we’ve got the best flapjacks in Arizona,”

Derek swore under his breath quietly as Stiles’ clenched his jaw and kept his smile.

“Oh, really? In all of _Arizona_? Like the whole state? They sound delicious,” Stiles smiled at Derek, letting it slip just enough to have a meaning behind it. “I’ll have blueberry pancakes with a side of bacon, please.”

“I’ll have the same,” Derek says and hands the lady the menus, watching as she walked away.

"You brought me to _Arizona_? What the hell are you trying to do? Reenact _Nothing to Lose_?"

Derek gave him a blank stare. 

"You know this is kidnapping, right?"

More blank staring. 

“I’m a long way from home,” Stiles sighs, giving up. “What’s here?”

Derek finally speaks, short and slow. “I like Arizona,” He states with an idle shrug. Stiles didn’t buy that either.

“Hypothetically speaking,” Stiles spins the salt shaker around on the table a few times before speaking again. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Well, it depends... hypothetically.”

He narrowed his eyes, saying, ”Depends on what?”

A huge grin, all shining white teeth, breaks out on the bastard’s face. “Circumstances,”

“Just for reference, I’d like to die somewhere cool like Vegas or Times Square,”

A sound between a scoff and a grunt.

“Who are you again?” Stiles finds himself saying.

“Name’s Derek Hale,” He responds easily.

He asks in a hushed voice, “What were you trained for?”

Derek glanced up, a misplaced glint of mischief in his eyes as he smiled again. “Now, if I tell you, I’d have to kill you,”

Stiles glared, annoyed at the vagueness of his words, and leaned closer to Derek. “Then tell me this; who do you work for?”

“Again,” He said in the same tone, bending over the table, merely inches from Stiles’ face. “I’d have to kill you,”

Stiles figured that if he made one wrong move, if he tipped his head forward and puckered his lips, he would know what it’s like to kiss Derek Hale.

But his head stayed straight and his lips remained relaxed, and the taste that would be Derek Hale was not lingering on his bottom lip.

In the same moment, Derek was back in his side of the booth.

“Excuse me, sugar,” The waitress said and Stiles sat back down as she set two plates on the table with a smile. “Holler if you need something,”

They eat in silence, a Beatles's song from the old, rusty jukebox in the corner filling the air between them, but after Stiles takes his last bite and wipes the sticky syrup from his hands and mouth, he speaks.

“Why did you take me here?”

Derek barely moved, not even glancing up from his plate. “I needed company,”

“So, you murder my friend - my _acquaintance_ \- drug me, and take me to Arizona without my consent, and expect me to believe that you took me out of my state, away from my home, just because you wanted company?”

“Yes,” Derek deadpanned with a smile that didn’t look like it belonged on his face. "I didn't murder your friend, though,"

" _Bullshit_." Stiles stares for a moment before running a hand over his face and through his hair, tugging on the strings in desperation. He looked up to the ceiling for a moment, praying to whoever the hell was listening for the strength not to yell and scream and call the cops.

Derek reached into his pocket. “We can’t be here for-”

A deafening crash sounded as the door fell in, cutting Derek’s sentence short, and five men wearing black suits rushed in, their fingers wrapped around guns and eye shielded behind dark glasses. Derek slid under the table, and Stiles stayed frozen in his seat, unsure of his next action. A few people in the diner bolted from their seats, a crowd pushing to the kitchen in search of an escape route, while other hid under the tables in a forlorn attempt to hide.

“ _Hale_!” One of the men shouted under the frightened screams as they all disappeared within the crowd, thankfully avoiding their table.

Stiles felt something cool being squeezed into his pocket, making him squirm. “What are you doing?”

Derek peeked from over the edge, and once he decided it was clear, he sat back in his seat. “Go through the kitchen, and go to my car. Get in the front seat, lock the doors, start the car, and drive around back. If I’m not out in five minutes, leave me.”

“But what-”

“ _Stiles_ ,” There was an obvious threat hanging in his voice, but unlike last time, this threat was real. Derek must’ve thought that Stiles hung around for too long because he growled, stood up, and pulled Stiles from the booth himself, pushing him towards a small door behind the counter.

Doing as he was told, Stiles ran through the kitchen, pushing and elbowing past people to get to the door. He almost brought the door off its hinges when he bursted though the door and hit the ground in a full sprint. He ran back to the front of the diner, and followed Derek’s instructions.

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard when he pulled around back, the LED display showing **7:41 A.M.** in brightly lit block numbers.

He bit at his nails nervously, thoughts clouding his mind. The rest of the customers were out by now, and the lot was empty, the tire tracks the only evidence that people were once here. A gunshot rang from inside the building, the skimpy door that hung on one hinge rattling with the sound. His heart dropped down by the floormat and his throat felt too small.

Danny’s face was suddenly in his mind, the closet thing he had to a family, a reminder of what he had back home. _Home_. The sticky air, neon lights, and mostly-gin drinks that made up the Jungle. His apartment on Flower Street. The one that had a dead plant on the kitchen table, and half a box of pizza in the refrigerator. Unless Derek just lets him go without putting a bullet through his head first, he’d never see it again. Or Danny. Or Ethan, Aiden either.

Stiles would never get the answers that he needs if Derek didn’t come back. He wouldn’t know why Jackson was killed, why he was wanted by men in black suits. It was like reading the first few chapters of a book, then throwing it away without ever knowing the ending, and Stiles was never good with unsolved mysteries. He wouldn’t see Derek ever again because he doubted that he’d bump into a scruffy, too-sexy-to-be-real murderer/kidnapper at his local grocery store.

(Stiles blamed the tight knot in his stomach on the sheer fact that he could possibly be killed in the next thirty seconds by five men and ricocheting bullets rather than the thought of Derek dying or leaving him and not having a chance of ever finding him again.)

Then again, Derek did give Stiles the car keys, and this would be a good time to escape. He could just put the car in gear, and pull off, leaving Derek behind and not looking back. He won’t tell Danny or Ethan or Aiden, or the cops, but he’d take the entirety of the past 24-hours to his grave. Derek would become just a distant thought until he faded away like a dream, and Stiles would continue on with his life as if nothing really happened.

But he didn’t want to do any of that.

The car stayed in park, the keys stayed in the ignition, and Stiles stayed in his seat.

Why he was being so protective of Derek, he didn't know himself. They had only met about twelve hours ago, and so far, he’d been (almost) shot, chased, drugged, abducted, and glared at. Either Stiles was just too kind and forgiving, or this was the quickest case of Stockholm syndrome ever developed. Stiles was leaning towards the latter. 

Stiles flailed for a second when a knock sounded at the window. He turned to see Derek, so he unlocked the doors and he leaned in, pulling a knob by Stiles’ foot. He could see a splatter of blood on his shirt and face.

He followed Derek to the back, where he pulled open the truck. Handguns, knives, and various weapons laid in the interior, and there was a glimmer of silver under a few rags - either more handcuffs or brass knuckles, Stiles assumed. It was now a bit obvious that he was trained to fight because he was terribly outnumbered back there, but he was the only one to walk out the door, but a question popped in Stiles’ head: fight who, exactly, and why?

“Stiles,” He grabbed a rag and wiped the blood from his face and his split lip. “Why are you still here?”

His brow sunk and he glanced up at Derek. “What do you mean? I was listening to what you said to do,”

“No,” He tucked a gun in his waistband. “It’s been seven minutes; you should’ve been gone at five minutes,”

“Um...” Stiles didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything at all. He busied himself by watching Derek arm himself. The moment passed in absolute silence, mostly because Stiles wasn’t going to say the wrong thing and mess things up. Thankfully, Derek didn’t say anything else about the topic.  

“Get in,” He said, and they both walked to their respective sides of the car.

“Where are we going?” Stiles asked as Derek peeled out of the parking lot, speeding limit be damned.

“A place,” He replied vaguely, merging onto the highway. “Figured you need to sleep in something... better...”

Derek trailed off, his gaze locked on his rearview mirror. He stared for a moment, steadily increasing speed as he weaved in and out of cars. His back went rigid and Stiles automatically knew something was wrong. He tried to look around to find the source of danger, but came up short.

“Derek, what’s wrong?”

“Well, good news and bad news,” He tossed a thin-lipped fake smile at Stiles. “Good news; there’s probably about to be a car crash.”

“ _How the hell is that good news_?” Stiles screeched, but Derek continued talking.

“Bad news; there’s a sixty-percent chance that it’s us in that crash,”

Stiles silently debated if the consequences of slapping that smile off Derek’s face would be worth it.

****  
****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a filler, just setting things up for the next chapter. I've worked out the plot a bit, and I estimated about 18 chapters btw. I think you guys will enjoy what I've got in mind (:  
> thank you for reading! xx

**Author's Note:**

> so like lemme know if I should continue or just delete this. thank you for reading (:


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